HAYWIRE(ISBN=) 英文原版

　　From the moment of its publication in 1977, Haywire was a
national sensation and a #1 bestseller, a celebrated Hollywood
memoir of a glittering family and the stunning darkness that lurked
just beneath the surface.
　　Brooke Hayward was born into the most enviable of circumstances.
The daughter of a famous actress and a successful Hollywood agent,
she was beautiful, wealthy, and living at the very center of the
most privileged life America had to offer. Yet at twenty-three her
family was ripped apart. Who could have imagined that this magical
life could shatter, so conclusively, so destructively? Brooke
Hayward tells the riveting story of how her family went
haywire.

　　Brooke Hayward lives in New York.

　　“Haywire is a Hollywood childhood memoir, a glowing tapestry
spun with equal parts of gold and pain. . . . An absolute beauty.”
—The New York Times Book Review
　　“Moving and brave and beautifully written. . . . [Hayward] has
told it as Fitzgerald might have—with the glow and the glamour, and
finally, the heartbreak.” —Newsday
　　“One of the most extraordinary personal memoirs I’ve ever read.
It has great honesty and charm and humor and beauty, and it is
deeply moving.” —Truman Capote
　　“Exquisite.” —Vanity Fair
　　“[A] masterpiece in the genre of harrowing autobiographical
tell-all.” —W
　　“Elegant and moving.” —Gore Vidal
　　“A sort of glorious fable from American mythology. . . . A
gripping and eloquent memoir by a courageous and classy writer.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
　　“She has modeled and acted and written: she writes, in fact,
marvelously. Haywire mesmerizes. May it cauterize as well.” —The
New York Times
　　“An incredible achievement!” —Lauren Bacall
　　“One of those rare books which seem to alter your perception of
things. It is specific and true in dealing with lives that might
have served as models for Fitzgerald’s fiction.” —Mike Nicols
　　“Brave, honest, intelligent and greatly moving.” —Newsweek
　　“Engrossing, intimate, moving. . . . Brooke Hayward writes like
an angel.” —Cosmopolitan

　　1
　　Endings
　　She had called me late the night before.
　　Looking back, I recall (or invent?) an urgency to her tone, but
really all she’d said was “Can you have breakfast tomorrow?”
　　”Hmm. What time? Do you have the proper ingredients? 
English muffins? Marmalade, et cetera?” We’d never shaken the habit
of testing one another.
　　”Of course, you spoiled brat. Come at ten, you shall have ginger
marmalade from Bloomingdale’s, fresh orange juice I shall squeeze
personally, boiled eggs—your customary five and a half minutes. And
of course there will be fascinating conversation.”
　　”Might I have a clue?” We’d also become adept at approaching each
other with oblique, occasionally fake, courtesy.
　　Silence, as I’d expected. Then: “Okay, do you have a good
gynecologist?”
　　My silence. “Of course. What for?”
　　”Brooke, listen.” She was suddenly singing. “I have never ever
been so happy in my life—I think I’m pregnant.”
　　”What?” I was predictably stunned, but less by that possibility
than by her confiding in me. “How the hell did you get
pregnant?”
　　”Oh,” she said, giggling, “probably from a toilet seat.”
　　”Bridget. For God’s sake, have you gone mad? I mean, how can you
possibly be twenty-one years old and reasonably, one hopes,
reasonably intelligent and not have been to a—”
　　”Brooke, listen.” She was positively frenzied with elation.
“Listen, it’s entirely possible that I want to get married, I’m so
in love. Do you hear me? Married!”
　　This conversation was moving just out of my reach, like a smoke
ring. All I could say was “Yes. I see what you mean about
breakfast—yes, indeed. Might one ask who the expectant father is?
No, never mind.”
　　”Ten o’clock tomorrow. What’s he like, is he nice, does he hurt?”
I knew she meant the gynecologist.
　　”Yes, no, never mind. Actually he’s from India—nice blend of
exotic and imperturbable. Forget it, go to sleep.”
　　”Okay, see you in the morning. Farewell.” Farewell. Nobody but
Bridget ever said goodbye to me like that; all her beginnings and
endings where I was concerned were unpredictable, and most of the
dialogue in between was enigmatic, a foreign language to any
outsider. But for my benefit she talked in her own private
shorthand, and what farewell meant was that she wanted me to button
up my overcoat and take good care of myself until ten in the
morning, because she would miss me in a way that would take far too
much sentimental effort to express. I knew what she meant. Often I
missed her while we were in the same room together.
　　I contemplated the phone for some time. Never had I heard her so
oddly gay and forthright; as a matter of fact, we hadn’t discussed
sex since adolescence. Her entire inner life was secretive and
mysterious, and no one dared violate it. She sent out powerful “No
Trespassing” signals and I had learned to honor them. It crossed my
mind that my sister was drunk.
　　Still, the next morning—a warm October day in 1960—I stood
outside her apartment door, nonplussed by the stack of mail and the
furled New York Times propped against it. The door itself was
slowly getting on my nerves. It didn’t open when I rang the
doorbell for the fifth or sixth time. It didn’t have a crack
underneath big enough for a worthwhile view of the interior,
although idiotically I’d got down on my hands and knees and looked
anyway. Nor did I have a key to unlock it. Even if she had been
drunk the night before, which was unlikely—besides, I prided myself
on being able to interpret at least her external behavior—she would
have been incapable of losing track of her invitation; she was a
creature of infuriating compulsion, particularly in matters of time
and place, always fussing about my lack of regard for either. Ever
since she’d moved from her one-room, third-floor apartment (to
which I had possessed a key, much used) to the comparative luxury
of an apartment one floor higher with an actual separate bedroom
and view (of the building across the street), I’d felt vaguely
displaced and surly. For the last year, I’d though of that little
one-room apartment as mine, an irrational attachment, since I was
not exactly homeless. Until a month before, I’d been living not
only in a commodious house in Greenwich, Connecticut, but also,
during the week, in a pied-á-terre on East Seventy-second Street.
My marriage to Michael Thomas, art historian and budding investment
banker, so blithely undertaken during undergraduate days at Vassar
and Yale, had, when removed from the insular academic atmosphere of
New Haven, fallen apart. We were no longer wrapped in cotton wool;
I was no longer a child bride. Now that our divorce was final, I’d
moved our two small children into New York and into my own spacious
apartment on Central Park West. I continued, however, to drop by
Bridget’s whenever I had five minutes between modeling jobs and
interviews. “Just checking out my make-up,” I’d announce breezily,
or, “Gotta use your phone.” The idea of telling my sister I’d
really come to see her would never have crossed my mind.
　　Her new quarters did have certain advantages: twice the closet
space for her warehouses of clothes and shoes, and a fully mirrored
bathroom, very handy for looking at oneself from all angles while
sitting on the cosmetics-crammed counter and conversing with
Bridget submerged in the tub as she tested some new bubble bath.
But I had never acquired the same proprietary feelings about this
setup. It just didn’t have the smell and cozy inconvenience of the
old. And now I cursed myself for neglecting to collect the
duplicate key she’d had made for me weeks ago. Becoming more and
more exasperated with both of us, I rang fiercely four times in a
row. Actually I felt like kicking the door. Then I though I heard a
sound from where the bedroom ought to be. Of course, it was
possible that she might still be asleep. Or, more interesting,
asleep with an as yet undisclosed lover. But wouldn’t she have left
a characteristically humorous note to that effect, right where the
bills from Con Ed and Jax were now lying? I began to punch the
doorbell to the rhythm of “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” During countless
afternoon naps when we were young, we’d invented out of boredom
what we thought was this highly original game, whereby we would
take turns tapping out an unidentified song with our fingernails on
the wooden headboards of our twin beds; the object was to determine
who was better at guessing it or tapping it, or even choosing it if
it was particularly esoteric. We both became fairly skillful, but
this time the old signal got no response. I decided that the noise
was either imagined or my stomach growling. Fresh orange juice and
an English muffin with crisp bacon at Stark’s around the corner on
Lexington became increasingly crucial. I scribbled her a note and
went on down in the elevator, trying to feel philosophical about
the whole wasted half-hour. Clearly some matter of extreme urgency
was to blame. At this very moment she was certainly racing back to
meet me, caught between subways, maybe, wonder of wonders, even
springing for a cab.
　　I galloped across the lobby toward the heavy glass doors and
sunlight. Behind the streamlined reception desk, more appropriate
to a luxury liner than an apartment building, was a ruddy-faced
doorman.
　　”Hi. Did you see my sister go out today?”
　　”No, Miss,” he answered in a thick brogue, “but then I only come
on at eight.”
　　”Ah.” I hesitated with a charming smile. “Well. Tell me
something.” (I tried Mother’s ingratiating imperative.) “Um, what
time does the mail get delivered? I mean, to the people in the
building?”
　　”Oh, Miss, maybe just over half an hour ago.”
　　”And the newspaper?”
　　”Oh, somewhere around six or seven. Just a minute, Miss.” He
moved to the door to let in an elderly couple with a poodle and a
Gristede’s shopping bag, then bolted the door open so that all the
sounds of the morning spewed in. A battle of simultaneous desires
was shaping up; whether to go out or stay and satisfy my curiosity.
After some consideration I followed him to the immense tropical
plant at the entrance. It was embarrassing—even melodramatic—to ask
for a key to apartment 403, but I did anyway.
　　”No problem, Miss. I’ll ring Pete and ask him to take you up.
He’s in the basement.”
　　”No, no, no, thanks, that’s too much trouble.” Ridiculous. For
instance, what if she had had to meet Bill Francisco, a young
director at the Yale Drama School (and romantic interest), for whom
she was doing some kind of production work? She had probably left a
message on my service. A telephone was clearly indicated. Again,
Stark’s. Besides, Bridget was so intensely ferocious about her
privacy there was no telling what she’d do if she knew I’d go to
such lengths to break into her sanctuary. Although Bridget was a
year and a half younger, I was afraid of her. “Listen, do me a
favor—when you see her, tell her I came by and rang but there was
no answer and I’ll call her later. Okay?”
　　He nodded and started to lift his hand, but I was already out the
door, feeling infinitely better, and striding toward
Lexington.
　　By the time I’d downed my O.J., read the paper, checked Belles
for a negative on messages, and gone to the ladies room, the grand
superstructure of the day had begun to disintegrate. Out of
perverseness, I jumped on the subway and went down to a sound stage
on Fourth Street to watch the shooting of Kay Doubleday’s big strip
scene in Mad Dog Coll, a gangster film that can still, to my
embarrassment, be seen occasionally on late-night TV. (It was the
first movie I’d ever been in; I had many difficult thing to do,
like play the violin and get raped by Vincent [Mad Dog] Coll,
played by a young actor named John Chandler, who, on completion of
the movie, decided to become a priest.) Kay Doubleday was in my
class at Lee Strasberg’s; it was in the interest of art, I told
myself, to watch her prance down a ramp, singing and stripping her
…